


Shoot Me for a Smile

by kasuutan



Series: The Decomposers [1]
Category: Free!
Genre: Agenderism, Begging, Degradation, Gender Neutral Pronouns, Implied Past Relationships, M/M, Makoharu Fanfiction Festival, Pet Names, Pet Play, Prostitution, Self Harm, Sexual Abuse, Slurs, Transgenderism, Transphobia, Trauma, art commune au, haru as an erotic model, kitten play, makoto as a photographer, photography mid-coitus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-23
Updated: 2015-01-23
Packaged: 2018-03-08 18:06:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3218450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kasuutan/pseuds/kasuutan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Family. Haru mouths it to himself. The word feels foreign on his tongue, he doesn't think he’s ever said it out loud before.<br/>Haru looks around. At the flickering lights, the moldy ceilings. The rusting bathroom pipes, the water that runs brown. He hears the laughing, the shouting, the sound of-<br/>Family. Haru tries it again.<br/>It’s not so bad the second time around. </p><p>Part one of The Decomposers series</p><p>Written for the MakoHaru Fanfiction Festival 2015</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shoot Me for a Smile

**Author's Note:**

> Named after The Matches song, Shoot Me in the Smile from the album Decomposer.
> 
> Festival Prompt: makoto is an up and coming photographer in tokyo. all of his previous photos are rather tame, until he gets hired to do a shoot for a popular erotic zine. he's unsure about this and feels pretty uncomfortable, especially when the model, haru, looks like he's undressing him with his eyes
> 
> I formally apologize to the prompter because I don't know where this prompt ran away from me but now it's almost 20k and I don't really know how or why it happened. 
> 
> Active disclaimer: this fic, as you can probably tell from the obscene tags list, contains a lot of sensitive topics, potentially triggering material, and it's also really really really REALLY queer. 
> 
> For a good amount of time, I identified as agender. Recently, I've been in the kind of scary process of coming out as a transboy. I use my experiences in my writing, but that's not to say that everyone experiences these things the same way. As such, Haru is written with gender neutral (they/them) pronouns for about 75% of this fic. Along the same lines, Nagisa uses male (he/him) pronouns, which we should all be used to already. These are obviously super sensitive topics, not only to me, but to the entire trans* community, so please be mindful while reading this fic. If you're unfamiliar with these terms and topics, that's okay!!! But this fic is not meant to educate you on them, but to share experiences through writing. 
> 
> Nagisa gets his own story later, I promise. (sorry bb your time will come)
> 
> Enjoy the ride and I promise Mexican Coke will update soon.

The bills in his wallet are old and waterlogged, ready to fall apart between his fingers. It’s the last of his money, dug out from the pockets of his jeans and the bottom of his backpack. He counts it at least four times, as if the amount would magically increase.

It’s been four months, two weeks, and three days. Makoto hasn’t slept in his own bed, under his own sheets, under his own roof in four months, two weeks, and three days. There’s dirt on the soles of his shoes from where he started in Tokyo, to Hamamatsu, to the edges of the country in Tanabe, and every little town in between. He doesn’t remember half of the places he’s ended up, all the rickety hostel bed-frames and lumpy couches of strangers blend together into one perpetual pain in the small of his back. All Makoto knows is he left Tokyo looking for a reason, looking for something that he could call his “change”, and the only “change” he’s found is a few hundred yen coins tucked away in the bottom corner of his camera bag.

It’s not even the money he’s lost, because Makoto wouldn’t call it a loss necessarily. It’s not the time it’s taken, the four months, two weeks and three days he’ll never get back, because Makoto knows four months is less than one percent of his entire life.

Makoto rotates his camera in his hands, looks through the viewfinder, and snaps. The shutter clicks, and the screen fills with a view of the cityscape. This is what he does every morning - wakes up in a town he can’t even remember the name of, wander to the highest point overlooking everything, and shoots. His camera is full of nameless places, but as he flips through all the photos from the last four months, two weeks, and three days, he can remember what he did in each town every single day. On the third day of the second month, Makoto stayed on a the couch of a young woman whose only friends were three goldfish and a dying parrot. On the ninth day of the third month, he was mugged underneath a bridge. Makoto zooms in on the bridge in photo 71/142. Yeah, right there, right between the third and fourth railings.

Makoto turns his camera off. 142 pictures of towns and cities no one cares about isn’t a thesis. There’s no amount of college-perfected bullshitting that could turn these photos into something remotely gradeworthy. He tosses the camera into its bag and drags his feet through the morning dew.

The walk down the hill feels shameful - Makoto knows this is is his last night. He’ll be back on the streets of Tokyo, climbing the stairs to his apartment, all stale-smelling from being unoccupied for four months, two weeks, and three days. He’ll unpack his bag, sit in the shower for hours, maybe even days, scrubbing away the feeling of coming home more than empty handed.

It’s inevitable, but Makoto still drags his feet down the hill, prolonging the denial.

Makoto remembers leaving Tokyo, camera bag light and airy with dreams. Now, it’s weighing him down, full of unmet expectations and failures.

Makoto is an optimist. He is positive, ever-glowing with a smile that can light an entire city. But as he gets to the bottom of the hill, Makoto truly feels like he’s reached the bottom of everything, anything, and even he can’t find a single reason to hold his head up high.

Makoto looks down at his shoes his entire walk to the train station. He looks uncharacteristically small, shoulders and back hunched in like he’s hiding. He hopes, if he caves in on himself, no one else will be able to see exactly what he wasn’t able to accomplish with his life.

He’ll return home, Makoto’s decided. Set his camera down, return to his 9-5. Collect checks, live the normal life he was destined to live. It was stupid to think he’d be able to change fate.

What happens next is like a bad joke. Like a sick, cruel joke planned out by some upper being just to further rub salt into Makoto’s wounds. The joke comes in the form of blond hair and grime. It rams him into the side of a building, knocks Makoto to his knees, and rounds the corner before Makoto can even laugh because ha ha, what a fucking great joke.

This is the second time Makoto’s been mugged on this journey, and he’s more surprised that he’s almost gone the whole trip without having his camera stolen at least once.

Makoto rounds the corner, runs down several alleyways, all while thinking “why bother?” The kid clearly knows where he’s going, Makoto’s going to lose him in no time. It’s not like he needs the camera anymore anyways, maybe whoever it’s going to now will actually make something worthwhile out of it.

Makoto’s steps slow to a halt, heels dragging in the dirt until he’s fully stopped in the middle of the alleyway, staring up at the clouds hanging above his head.

“Hey…like. I should probably just keep running but. I mean, aren’t you gonna keep chasing me?”

Makoto’s looking down at stringy blond hair and patch-ripped clothes. The camera bag is over his shoulder, Makoto could knock the kid over, easily, grab the bag, and be on his way.

“No. It’s probably better with you anyways.”

The blond lets out a whistle and rocks back and forth on his heels.

“Man…way to make me feel guilty. I can’t steal a camera from a sad looking guy…”

Makoto opens his mouth to say he is not sad, just in a slump, or something. He tosses the camera back and forth between his hands, head tilted back to look up at the sky. He groans, like he’s contemplating an incredibly difficult choice.

“But…if I go home without it Haru-chan’s gonna rip me into pieces and cook me with the stew tonight…But you look so sad and hopeless like this camera is the only friend you have let or something I really CAN’T do that to someone…”

Makoto wants to be offended, but he’s right, that camera’s seen Makoto at his worst.

“Hey! Wait! If you have a camera…that must mean…you’re a photographer!”

Makoto blinks.

“Well. I mean-”

Bony fingers wrap tight around Makoto’s wrist and suddenly he’s being pulled- no, hauled by someone nearly half his size.

“Shush shush! No time to talk! Our deadline is tomorrow and we need to send these to press tonight!”

Makoto thinks this still might be a part of a very elaborate joke. As he gets dragged from seedy alleyway to seedier alleyway, Makoto thinks the punch line might be his own death, or at the very least, having several of his organs harvested. Once again, Makoto is surprised neither of these things haven’t already happened.

“Okay! It’s just over this fence.” His captor tosses the camera bag over the chicken-wire, landing with a thud loud enough to make Makoto cringe. He prays it’s okay, a broken camera is of no use to no one, not even a broken photographer.

“How good are you at climbing things?”

“Uh-”

“Shut up!!! You’re talking too much, climb, climb, climb!!!”

Makoto scrambles to the fence, frantic and wild like he’s competing in a race he didn’t realize he had signed up for. He falls off the top of the fence and lands flat on his back, groaning as rocks dig into his skin.

“Great! Come on, we’re just about there.” He’s being hoisted up and pulled again, and Makoto still has no idea what the fuck is currently happening to him.

Makoto’s surrounded by tree stumps arranged in some kind of lopsided circle. A fire pit filled with old wood and crumbled paper crackles in the middle of the stumps. Guitars and drums made from tarp stretched over cans lay across the asphalt, like they’re waiting for their owners to return.

He hears barking from his side, as well as the sound of four legs pounding against asphalt.

“Hey there, Saba! You know where Haru-chan is?”

Saba, who is definitely a dog and not in fact a fish, knocks the blond onto the ground, paws pressed against his chest and tongue lapping up the dirt crusted on his face.

“Oh come on, I’ve got stuff to do! We’ll play with you later, alright?”

The dog whines, but runs off past the stump circle and into the long aluminum shed that forms an L around the property.

“They must be in the art space, follow me, okay?” This is a terrible idea, absolutely awful idea, Makoto has no idea how he’s managed to follow all the way up to this point. But his kidnapper has a dog, which must mean he’s a good person, right?

Fists bang on a metal garage door, rattling loud like a huge tin can.

“Hey, Haru-chan! You in here? I brought something for you!”

Makoto isn’t sure what the “something” is; the camera, or him. There’s a muffled voice from beyond the door.

“No, it’s good this time, I promise! Open the door okay?”

Makoto thinks he hears a groan, followed by metal screeching. He has to cover his ears.

“Don’t mind them, Haru-chan’s temperamental.”

“No, I’m not. You’re just frustrating, Nagisa.”

Makoto forgets everything, forgets about his stolen camera, forgets about his lack of money, forgets about the four months, two weeks, and three days worth of pointless photographs, because maybe Makoto’s a romantic, maybe he's an idealist, or maybe everything of this trip has lead up to his moment, because-

“Who is this?”

Nagisa freezes, fingers scratching in his hair.

“Ah-um. This is…?”

“M-makoto. I’m Makoto. And you are….” Really pretty, he thinks, almost says out loud.  Makoto bites his lip.

The head turns away with a shrug, and Makoto wants to beg to have even one photo of those startling sapphire blue eyes; he thinks he can make an entire project just out of the color.

“It’s Haru-chan- er. Haru. This is Haru.”

“Haru.” Makoto tests it out, rolls his tongue around it, thinks about how he’ll now always associate spring with the color blue.

He sees Haru’s nose scrunch up a little, lips turning down at the corners like something upsetting’s happened. It makes Makoto’s heart sink a little bit, doesn’t understand why, exactly.

“Haru-chan, Mako-chan! Perfect, now y’all know each other!” Nagisa claps his hands together, grin wide enough to touch his ears.

“Great. Why is he here?”

It occurs to Makoto he doesn’t know the answer to this either.

“Haru-chan, meet your new photographer!”

Haru sighs while Makoto’s mouth falls open, because what? He was expecting to lose a few organs, at least, possibly his life. He wasn’t expecting to be taken hostage to do his job.

“Um…excuse me? But. What is happening, exactly?”

Haru and Nagisa exchange glances, or more like, Haru looks at Nagisa, exasperation incredibly apparent, while Nagisa laughs nervously, avoiding all means of eye contact.

“Did you not explain what he’s doing?" _  
_

“Well I mean, not _exactly_ …I meant to just like. Take his camera, but he looked so hopeless and sad I thought well…maybe he could just…Live here?”

Makoto blinks. Not only has he been offered a job, but also apparently, a place to live. This is news.

Haru and Nagisa continue talking as if Makoto weren’t there.

“So what, you’re just gonna tell him he lives here now?”

Nagisa nods firmly, because clearly, this isn’t absurd to him whatsoever.

“Mako-chan, I’m pleased to announce that you are officially a member of Thiengod Memorial Art Commune!”

“…What does that mean?”

Nagisa waves his hands. “The name was written on a rock I found once- probably dropped here by aliens.”

“We don’t actually call it that.” Haru says, tone flat. “It’s The Tar Pit. Hope you like sinking.”

“No. I mean. What does…any of this mean?”

Nagisa pats Makoto on the shoulder and places the camera in his open hands.

“It means you keep doing what you were born to do- capture the moment.”

 

It takes Makoto the tour of his new “home” to come to the conclusion it isn’t his fault that nothing makes sense, he isn’t actually an idiot. The musty smell permeating through the commune is telling - Makoto went to art school, it’s a scent he’s familiar with. Nagisa, Makoto presumes, is also no stranger to whatever substance is making the entire commune smell like its been sprayed by a family of skunks. Makoto doesn’t like assuming, but he’s pretty sure assumptions stop being assumptions when he’s 99% certain.

“Rei-chan and I sleep in here….” Nagisa points into a room where one half is immaculately spotless, the other half littered with dead succulents and preserved beetles. “Sou-chan and Rin-chan sleep in here…”

Makoto almost knocks on the closed door.

“Ah! No no, don’t ever knock on their door if it’s closed - trust me, these eyes have seen shit, Mako-chan.” Makoto lowers his fist to his side and takes a few steps back from the door.

“And where does Haru sleep?” Makoto hopes this isn’t a weird thing to ask. Nagisa shrugs.

“Wherever they feel like. Usually in the art space. Sometimes I find them on the floor in the kitchen. Sometimes with Sousuke and Rin. They do whatever they want.”

Makoto nods. It seems very Haru-like. Or something.

“And this room…was our old photographer’s room…” Nagisa pauses for a minute, looking down at the floor.

“…Did. Did you just cross yourself?” Makoto says, very, very slowly. Nagisa smiles warmly.

“What are you talking about, Mako-chan?”

“I. Nevermind.”

They step into the room, which to Makoto’s pleasant surprise, does not smell like death. It’s clean, actually. The mattress in the corner has been dressed with newly washed sheets, the lamp on the ceiling is not flickering like the other lights in the house, there’s even a full length mirror, even if it is cracked straight down the middle, splitting Makoto’s reflection in two.

“Rei-chan and Haru-chan cleaned the place up for you! Our old photographer…he was..uh, well…” Nagisa mouths something, something that looks a lot like “fate”, and Makoto isn’t sure he wants to know what sort of “fate” this ex-photographer managed to meet.

“Make yourself at home. After all, this is home now.”

Makoto drops his bag next to the mattress, full of the few belongings he has left. He thought for sure they’d be sitting next to him on a train back home to Tokyo, not on the floor next to another frameless mattress.

“Haru-chan makes lunch around 1, if you’re hungry, come out to the courtyard- it’s grill day!” Nagisa bounces towards the door, and Makoto thinks he still hasn’t gotten any answers back about what exactly he’s doing here.

“Oh, before I leave.” Nagisa looks back, arms braced against the door frame. “Haru-chan is really happy you’re here.”

“Uh. It didn’t really seem that way?”

Nagisa raises a finger to his lip.

“Don’t worry - I know.”

* * *

“What? You expect me to pay you after that shit you just pulled?”

Haru has no idea what shit he’s supposedly just pulled, since like, he’s pretty sure he’s the one with blood crusted on the inside of his thighs.

“Yeah. That’s how this works.” Haru’s voice is flat; he manages to not croak, manages to ignore the sensation of constriction encompassing his neck. He can almost pretend his hands aren’t quivering as he slips his shirt back over his head. He tugs at the hem, trying to pull it past his waist, or at least past his navel, because he can’t look at this much of himself anymore.

Smoke fills the room, and Haru coughs. Bad move, terrible move, it feels like sand paper’s raking the inside of his throat, dragging up the flesh and splitting it open. Shallow breaths, he starts counting, one, two, three, until he can go back to pretending he can’t feel a thing.

“Nah, that’s not what I signed up for when you got in my car, doll face. You looked so good, standing on the street shivering in that slut shirt and those jeans, I mean, I feel like any dude would make the same mistake. Fucking gross, you’re fucking gross.”

“Okay. You owe me money.” Haru’s standing on the other side of the room, tugging ripped, too-small jeans over his thighs. His entire lower half hurts, he can feel the bones of his hips turning purple again. He buttons his jeans straight over them, finger-shaped bruises disappearing beneath the waistband, and he can feel little bit normal when he pretends they aren’t there.

“What part of ‘I didn’t pay to fuck a fucking…” He trails off, and Haru can feel the disgust permeating through the room, can practically hear the grimace pulling at his client’s lips.

“I never said I was a girl, you know.” He never has.

“Yeah, and you never said you had a dick either. And in that outfit? You can’t blame me for thinking you were one of those no-tit skanks that are popular right now.”

Haru wraps his scarf around his neck and pulls up it over his mouth. His client blows out smoke again, and Haru holds his breath. He bends over and feels around the floor, searching, searching-

“Hey! What the fuck do you think you’re doing?!” There’s a hand fisting in his hair, scalp searing as the skin lifts off his skull by the roots. Haru hisses as his head is craned back, the pain in his neck flaring from the hollow of his throat up to the base of his tongue. He can taste bile pooling in the back of his mouth. Haru swallows. It burns.

“You think I owe you shit? You think I owe some little drag-queen whore anything? You tricked me, you sick fuck.” Haru closes his eyes and scowls. He’s getting fed up, he doesn’t have the patience for this.

“You enjoyed it. I didn’t let you stick your dick in me for free.”

Haru is shit at his job. He can’t stay quiet, he’s bad at playing pretend. He can’t put on a pretty face for anyone, can’t fake a smile, can’t fake a moan.

The metal cracks into his face like it was meant to be there. Haru feels the skin on his lip split, his cheek open, and his entire jaw snap. The left side of his face goes numb, frozen like he’s been shoved face first into snow. He can’t even feel the stream of red collecting at the tip of his chin and dripping down in scarlet drops. The rings on his client’s fingers gleam under the dirty light from the street lamps outside. If he looks hard enough, Haru can almost see him smiling.

“There you go. Not so pretty now, all banged up like that. Maybe this way some other sad guys won’t make the mistake of picking you up.”

He’s dragged and thrown out, like a child’s toy being tossed down the stairs by an angry parent, left in the middle of the floor, in the way and unwanted.

The streets are cold and wet. It’s the middle of winter, rain washing down the gutters and storm drains. Haru wipes the back of his hand across his face, blood smearing across his fingers. It turns the rainwater pink, and Haru thinks absently that it’s almost pretty.

Pretty. It makes Haru’s mouth go sour, all rancid tasting like everything he’s had to put his mouth on tonight. He feels the nausea swirling, feels his entire face throbbing, head pulsing, throat burning.

It comes out practically colorless, because Haru hasn’t eaten in at least two days. The thing he’s most irritated about right now is after all that shit, he still doesn’t have a single dollar in his pocket.

He gets himself to his feet. He’s sure his face is definitely still bleeding, cold air cutting into the fresh open gashes that are sure to scar- thick, blotchy, and ugly. He wraps his jacket around him tight, tugs the scarf tighter until his throat is so numb he can’t feel the ache, and wanders down the streets.

He starts it all over again.

 

A gas station is probably one of the stupidest places Haru’s ever tried to pick up a client. Worse than that time he ended up in between two rival gang territories. Worse than when he was almost involved in a drive-by shooting. A gas station is civilization, where people have the right mind to call the police when a hooker with half their face cut open wanders down the street.

Haru is starving. He ignores consequences.

Haru pulls his scarf further up his face, covering most of his chin and gashed cheek. The bleeding hasn’t stopped, staining the blue fabric brown. He hopes it isn’t suspicious.

There’s one person, other than the teller, inside the gas station. From a distance, Haru can make out crow-foot yellow hair, stark against the dark clothes. He’s standing at the register - no, is he hopping? Haru tilts his head to the side. At least someone’s having a good time tonight.

Haru stands at the corner of the 24-hour market, just a few feet from the door. The blond walks out, humming quietly to himself with a pack of cold medicine between his fingers. He glances at Haru briefly, walks a few steps, and turns around again, double taking. He stops long enough to stare, and even if Haru can’t quite make out his expression, he’ll call it interest.

Haru can’t be picky. He’s hungry. He would get on his knees for a hot meal and a place to sleep at this point.

“Hey. Um! Sorry to bother you, but…”

“There’s a place down the road from here, a couple blocks if you don’t mind walking.”

Haru’s met with wide, magenta eyes like dinner plates. He blinks, owlish and blank, like he has no idea what Haru’s trying to get at.

“Sorry, what now?” He tilts his head to the side.

Haru sighs, ruffling the fabric of his scarf. He places a hand on his (hopefully) soon-to-be-client’s shoulder and leans down, lips brushing against the side of his neck, right below his ear.

“WOAH! Okay! Chill!” There are hands on his chest, arms straight out like they’re trying to make room for Jesus in between them. This time, Haru blinks, eyebrow quirked up because what the fuck is happening?

“So that’s what you mean! I see, I see. You seem really nice and all, but you see, I have a sick boyfriend at home and he really needs this cold medicine - poor baby! He’s all snotty and coughing and is like ‘Nagisa-kun I am truly DYING PLEASE get me some medicine!’ and because I love him, here I am at like 2:30 in the morning getting cold medicine.”

Haru feels physically exhausted listening to this person talk.

“…Alright then…” is all Haru can think of saying. Nagisa narrows his eyes and gets on his toes. He leans into Haru’s face until their noses are almost touching. Haru takes a step back, instinctually pulling his scarf further up his face.

“…Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” Haru says it almost immediately, like it’s an automatic reaction he’s developed.

“Can you take off your scarf for me?”

“No.”

“Can you tell me your name?”

“Only if you’re paying me.”

Nagisa smiles, and Haru can’t remember the last time someone smiled at him like that.

“I can pay you with a hot bowl of soup - Rei-chan is an excellent cook! - and a place to sleep. Will you tell me your name then?”

Haru stops. He looks down, warm pink eyes looking up at him like he’s a friend he’s known for years. All familial, gentle, kind, it’s all the things Haru’s forgotten people can be.

“…Haru.” Nagisa’s face brightens, smile stretching until Haru’s afraid it’ll fall off his face.

“Haru-chan!”

 

“Oh hell no.”

“Oh my god.”

Nagisa’s head spins back and forth between them, like he’s watching a game of tennis.

“Oh! Are you guys friends?”

“I gave Sousuke head once a week on Friday afternoons for three months in the back of his ugly truck. Then he disappeared and I was out $50 a week.” Haru crosses his arms, scowl dragging his lips down. “This is where you went off to? You didn’t even tell me you were moving.”

Sousuke tilts his head back to look at the ceiling.

“You’re not my girlfriend. And my truck is not ugly.”

There’s some groaning that sounds a lot like “Nagisa-kun” from the opposite end of the house.

“Uh…I should. Give Rei-chan. His medicine. You two can. Catch up…?” Nagisa side steps into the hallway, inching away from the tension brewing in the air.

“Good to see you’re still alive.” Sousuke says flatly. “Or at least, somewhat. What’s with the scarf?” Haru tugs the blood-drenched fabric higher. He hopes it comes off as an organic dye or pattern in the dim lighting.

“It’s cold.”

Sousuke rolls his eyes.

“Take it off.”

“Only if you pay me, you know how it works.”

Sousuke’s eyes narrow.

“Good to know your sense of humor is still drier than your grandmother’s p-”

“No.”

There’s stumbling footsteps from the hallway, followed by dramatic yawning.

“Sou, where are you?” Sousuke looks towards the hallway and cups a hand around his mouth.

“In here, Rin” Red stumbles into the room. Red hair, red eyes, red clothes. Rin drapes arms around Sousuke’s shoulders, pressing his face into the side of Sousuke’s cheek.

“Who’s this?”

“It’s Haru.”

“Ah, the pretty-boy slut.” Haru feels his stomach churn, but he looks off to the side, scarf still held over his face.

“What’s he doing here?”

“Nagisa dragged him home.”

Haru’s met with a toothy grin, sharp and pointy like they can gnaw off flesh.

“Welcome to the fam, Haru.”

Haru opens his mouth to respond ( _What happened to your teeth?_ is what he was going to ask) but he’s interrupted by sneezing, followed by hacking, and then “Aww, honey, it’s okay!”

Family. Haru mouths it to himself. The word feels foreign on his tongue, he doesn't think he’s ever said it out loud before.

Haru looks around. At the flickering lights, the moldy ceilings. The rusting bathroom pipes, the water that runs brown. He hears the laughing, the shouting, the sound of-

Family. Haru tries it again.

It’s not so bad the second time around.

 

The commune is silent after midnight. Nagisa sleeps heavy, Haru can hear him snoring all the way from the living room. He guesses then, that there would be no consequence in very carefully sneaking back into the house at 4 in the morning on his hands and knees.

He makes it through the doorway with no consequence, the house is filled with varying sounds of sleep- Nagisa’s bear-like snores, Rin’s mumbling, followed by Sousuke’s muffled groaning of “Rin, shut up.”

Haru crawls to the bathroom, palms of his hands and pads of his knees scraped up bad from dragging himself home across gravely asphalt. He tries to stand to reach the door knob, but the pain in his back and hips surge up his spine and knock him straight back down to the ground. Haru wants to scream, but again, 4 in the morning, so he bites into the side of his hand until he draws blood. By then, the pain’s subsided, or at least been replaced with something else.

It takes a good amount of fiddling for Haru to get the bathroom door open from the ground. He crawls onto the dirty tile and kicks the door closed behind him. There’s absolutely no way he’s going to reach the light from the ground, so he works off of the dim moonlight pouring in from the window above the tub.

He starts with his shirt, because that’s easiest. Or, what’s left of his shirt. The fabric is ripped from the center down to his navel, threads unraveling across his chest. He pulls it off over his head, arms and wrists aching with the movement.

He tries to not look, tries to look straight up at the ceiling so he can pretend they aren’t there, but milky flesh catches in the moonlight, and Haru thinks he can see his bones through his skin. Blotches of purple-red line up from the insides of his forearms all the way to where his wrists meet his hands. His fingers shake and he wants them to stop, stop, _stop_ , because if he lets them tremble, lets them shiver, he’s letting himself be weak.

He peels his jeans off next, button missing and zipper broken. It takes tugging to get them past his hips, rough denim scraping like agony against the tired flesh. He gets them off to his ankles and kicks them away, because he never wants to look at these clothes again.

His hips almost look like works of art. The blending layers of red, purple, yellow, green, all in the shape of different sized fingers, it’s almost like a painting that tells a story. There are so many, always there, Haru can’t even remember what the skin there really looks like anymore.

Haru’s tired of seeing them, of the marks and bruises being a part of him that will never disappear. Every day he gets dressed, looks in that long cracked mirror he sees them, peeking out of the tops of his jeans. They spread further and further every night, all the way up his waist. Haru dresses quickly, but not quickly enough to ever pretend that if he covers them with fabric, they’ll disappear forever.

It’s 4 am and the bath water is almost cold enough to freeze. Haru can’t care, can’t even feel anything, so he climbs in, joints and limbs numbing to match the icy water. He lolls his head back against the edge of the tub and stares straight out the window.

The water magnifies all the things wrong with him. It’s dark, but Haru can make out the distorted image of his own face reflected on the surface; he turns to his right, and Haru can almost pretend he’s ordinary. Turns to his left, and he’s reminded he’ll never be.

He remembers what Nagisa had said the first time he’d seen him without his scarf.

_“Haru-chan what the fuck?!”_

_“I’m fine.”_

_“I didn’t ASK if you were fine! That’d be stupid because that’s clearly NOT fine!”_

_Nagisa had started to fret, leaning close into Haru’s face like he could fix it or something._

_“Rei-chan worked in an ER for a while, if you had told us this had happened we could have stitched it up but of course you had to play all secretive with us.” Nagisa reached down and picked up the scarf, blood stains bleached out but still visible._

_“Is that why you’re always wearing this thing? I dunno why you’d think you could hide it forever.”_

_“Don’t worry about it, it’s old.” Haru pulled the scarf from between Nagisa’s fingers and wrapped it up around his face. Nagisa frowned, and it hit Haru right between his ribs, because there’s absolutely no reason for Nagisa to look so upset._

_“Don’t look at me like that.” Don’t look at me like you care, I’m not good enough for you to care about._

_“Haru-chan, you have to tell me when this stuff happens…You don’t have to hide things anymore.”_

_Haru just shrugged. He doesn’t know what it means to not hide._

Haru splashes away the bathwater, rippling his reflection until he can’t make out his own face. He doesn’t want to look at it anymore, doesn’t want to look at himself anymore, doesn’t want anyone to have to look at him anymore.

There are scissors in the shower rack from when Haru cut Rei’s hair last week. They’re dull and rusted around the handle, but they can still snip, sharp and clean like a paper-cut.  Haru reaches over and grabs them from the rack, turning them over and over between his fingers.

Haru’s skin is like paper, transparent and thin as it stretches over narrow bones. It comes off easy, like cutting through an art project. Piece by piece, the marks disappear beneath the metal, disappear beneath scarlet water that Haru can almost call beautiful.

He doesn’t stop until there’s pounding on the bathroom door.

“Haru-chan!!! Open up now!” Haru doesn’t know what any of this means. The scissors clatter to the bottom of the tub, lost beneath blood-murky bath water.

The door throws open, and Nagisa’s at the side of the tub, hoisting Haru out. Every inch of his body sears, sliced open and abused beyond recognition.

“What did I say to you last time?! Didn’t I say you don’t have to hide things anymore?!”

Nagisa’s the one crying, so why is Haru’s vision swimming?

“You’re not alone here anymore, Haru-chan! How long will it take for you to get that?! This is home now, you’re home now, what part of that don’t you understand?”

Home. Haru tries it. He’s never had a home before.

Nagisa’s hoisting him over his shoulder, and his body feels warm, safe, like what a home would feel like.

He’s being laid down on a bed, comfortable, soft, tender, like what a home should be.

“Rei-chan! Rei-chan, help!”

He’s being fussed over, cleaned up and bandaged with Nagisa whispering “Hey, it’s okay, it’s okay, we’ll take care of you,” like a mother would take care of her child.

He’s having his hand held, told he won’t be left alone, like what love in a home should feel like.

Haru falls asleep, fingers woven between Nagisa’s, and he thinks maybe, he can do “home”.

 

“Oh my god, Haru-chan. No, absolutely not you are not going out again.”

Haru shrugs, pulling a coat on over his arms.

“We need the money, they’re going to turn our electricity off if we don’t pull together enough money by the end of the month.”

Nagisa scowls.

“I’d rather walk around in the dark than let you get hurt again.”

Haru shrugs.

“It’s my fault anyways, when you do shit like that you should know what’s coming for you.”

Nagisa makes a sound, like a sound a dying animal would make.

“No, no baby don’t believe things like that. It’s like saying ‘Hey, Rei-chan, you want to be a doctor? A patient could spread a disease to you and you could get sick and die…But that’s your fault, you know, for becoming a doctor.”

Haru frowns.

“That’s absurd.”

“Exactly, and so is what you’re saying.”

“They’re not the same.”

Nagisa throws his hands up in the air.

“They’re absolutely the same! Doctor or really pretty prostitute, it’s never your fault if someone hurt you.”

“…Who beats doctors?” Haru says flatly. Nagisa pouts.

“Really bad people.” Nagisa mumbles something about “Poor Rei-chan…”

“Anyways, no. As the mother of this house I absolutely forbid you from going out there again.”

“Nagisa this is my job. I can’t do anything else. This is what I’m good at.”

Nagisa shrugs.

“I didn’t say you weren’t good at it - I bet you’re really good at it. We’ll just figure out a safer, funner, better way to do it.”

Haru has no idea what Nagisa means. He blinks.  

“So. How do you feel about cameras?”

 

“You remind me of a mermaid, Haru-chan.”

“What?”

They’re sitting in the front room of Kou’s tattoo parlor, a book of flash drawings between their thighs.

“You’re pretty, just like a mermaid - or, a merman, I guess?”

Haru feels his body tense, and he goes back to flipping through the portfolio book to avoid the conversation.

“Ah. Sorry. Merperson then.”

“What?”

Nagisa stretches in his seat, feet swinging back and forth above the floor.

“I’ve noticed for a while, every time someone calls you a boy or a girl, you get all tense.”

Haru blinks.

“No, I don’t.”

Nagisa smiles a little bit. Haru’s noticed Nagisa has different kinds of smiles; this is the one that says _“I understand something that you don’t quite understand yet”._

“It’s okay, it’s kind of hard to place at first. It feels all weird, like. You feel a little bit wrong, but you can’t really place why? Like when people called me a girl, I used to feel all kinds of weird. But when people started seeing me as a boy, I felt better. Do you ever feel like that?”

Haru doesn’t know how to respond. He stops to think for a minute. Thinks about all the times he’s been mistaken for a girl because of his name, because of how he looks, only to disappoint when in reality, he’s a boy.

But, then again, now that he thinks about it, “boy” doesn’t really seem quite right, either.

It never has.

“I think so.” Haru finally responds, because yeah, maybe it does make sense.

“So, not mermaid or merman but…MerHaru?” Nagisa tries. “Because, that’s who you are, right? Haru-chan?”

“…Yeah.”

Kou steps out from behind the curtain, tossing gloves into the trashcan.

“Hey, Hiro, can you explain the aftercare to my last client, I gotta get to those two - brother’s friends and all, they get the celebrity treatment.” Blood orange ponytail bobs up and down from behind the reception desk, and Kou leans in for a kiss.

“If my brothers come in, do they get celebrity treatment, too?”

Kou wrinkles her nose.

“Absolutely not.”

Kou crosses the parlor and sits parallel to Haru and Nagisa.

“Hey guys! I haven’t seen you in a while, what brings you in?”

Nagisa leans in for a hug, and Haru nods in acknowledgement.

“It’s actually Haru-chan this time, they’re thinking of something sea-related.”

“Anywhere specifically?”

Nagisa pauses, and looks tentatively at Haru.

“Hips and on the insides of the arms.”

Kou blinks. She nods, like that explains something.

“What’s your favorite color?” She asks, pulling out sketchbook.

“I don’t really have o-”

“Haru-chan looks great in blue!”

Haru doesn’t bother correcting him.

“Blue it is. I heard you guys talking about mermaids or something, I have something in mind. I think it’ll suit you, Haruka.”

 

It takes Kou a moment, running her finger over the raised, scarred-over skin of Haru’s hips and arms.

“Good to know you’re okay,” she says, pouring shades of blue into little plastic containers.

“Thanks.” Haru hears the buzz of the gun, a sound they’ll associate with recovery, change, new beginnings.

“You ready?”

Haru nods. As the needle touches his skin, he thinks maybe this way, he’ll be ready to face the world again.

 

“Woah, amazing! Haru-chan, you really look like you just came out of the sea!”

Haru turns in the mirror, admiring the saturated blue scales climbing up their hips, curling around the insides of their forearms to the base of their wrists. It looks like a work of art - they look like a work of art.

“Well, Nagisa-kun did say you were going to be a model. It’s like free advertising for me, I had to do my best work.” Kou smiles lightly, pulling her hands behind her head to readjust her slacking ponytail.

“Well, what about you? Do you like them?”

Haru runs their fingers over the scales, they can pretend they’ve grown directly out of his skin, covering blotchy, raised scarring because they deserve a chance to feel normal again. They feel like they’ve found a missing piece of themselves, like they’re whole again. 

“Yeah. I do. I love them.”

Haru’s too busy admiring the scales to notice Nagisa’s face lighten up, like he’s seen the most beautiful thing in the world.

* * *

Makoto wishes he had control over his proneness to blushing. He can feel his face light up various shades of pink as Nagisa sits him and Haru down at the kitchen table to explain what exactly he was dragged to the commune for.

“So yeah like, Haru-chan’s a little bit famous? And we have like. 200 zines on preorder that we haven’t had the chance to photograph because SOMEONE thought it’d be a good idea to let MOMO-CHAN be our photographer.”

“HE WAS MY SISTER’S GIRLFRIEND’S BROTHER. HOW COULD I SAY NO?” That’s apparently Rin screaming from the back of the house, and Makoto finds himself lost again. Nagisa rolls his eyes.

“Whatever. Anyways. The zine is slated to be shipped out next week, we have to send the photos to press tonight. It’s 1:30 right now, so you’ve got… about ten hours to get these all done! We need 40 photos, plus five extra with full nudity for the VIP set, so 45 photos of our cute little Haru-chan here!” Nagisa wraps his arms around Haru’s body.

“Don’t call me cute.”

Haru stares Makoto straight down, and he can feel himself flushing straight up again.

“Can you do this?”

“Uh-um well. I mean! I’ve taken. Photos like these before? For school! But…not of…” _Someone like you. Someone so intimidatingly gorgeous, I feel like I’m going to-_

“Not of a boy. I get you.” Haru looks down at Nagisa again. “See look, you brought another one back. This is exactly what happened to Momotarou.”

What exactly happened to Momotarou? Makoto is so concerned, what the fuck happened to Momotarou?

“I mean, that’s not what I meant. I’ve taken pictures of boys before but you’re…never mind! I can do it! I promise!” Makoto isn’t sure who he’s trying to convince now, Haru, Nagisa, or himself. He wants to do it, oh my god he absolutely wants to do it. There’s something about Haru that’s so alluring, the perfect photo subject, everything Makoto’s been looking for and he can just reach over the table and-

“Okay. I’ll be in the art space setting up. Come in when you’re ready.” Haru gets up from the table and leaves without warning. Makoto lets go of a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. He looks up, and he sees Nagisa grinning back at him.

“W-what?” Makoto feels like he’s done something wrong.

“Oh, nothing! I just knew you two would be a perfect fit!”

Makoto feels like he’s been lost all day.

“Oh! Speaking of perfect. You’re going to need these.” Nagisa reaches under the kitchen table and tosses a box onto the table. “We release a zine every month for Haru, and the fanbase votes for next month’s theme. Last month, “felines” won by a landslide over my personal favorite, aliens, so you’ll be using this stuff.”

Makoto pulls the lid of the box open and wants to faint. He squirms in his seat, it’s not like he’s into that or anything.

Nagisa muffles a laugh, and Makoto thinks he’s failed at keeping his secret.

“Have fun, Mako-chan!”

 

Hours could have passed in the time that Makoto’s spent standing outside the metal door of the art space. He wouldn’t have noticed, because he’s too busy hyperventilating, thinking about how Haru is behind that door, how soon he is going to behind that door, taking pictures of Haru, saying things like “ _Okay, a little more arch, look at me, use those eyes and look at me…”_

Makoto slaps himself. This is absurd. Why is he daydreaming about this, when he could just open the door and-

Makoto presses his face into his hands and makes some noise that’s like a cross between a groan and a squeal.

“I can hear you from in here, you know. You’ve been standing out their for a while.”

Makoto yelps and recoils away from the door.

“I! Uh- sorry! Sorry. I’ll be right in.”

“Take your time. It’s not like we’re on a deadline or anything.”

Makoto flushes and scratches the back of his head. He presses his hands against the metal door of the art space and pushes. Makoto slips under the space between the door and the ground and lets the metal crash back into place.

The inside of the art space smells like drying paint. It’s a strangely pleasant scent, it might be the only room of the entire commune that doesn’t reek of smoke.

Haru’s sitting on a crate, coat wrapped over thin limbs and pearly skin. Slim, pale legs hang over the edge of the box, toes flexed and pointing straight at the ground. Arms are crossed over the dark canvas of the coat, wrinkling the fabric up around Haru’s chest.

“About time.” Haru shifts, about to jump off the stack of crates.

“No!” Makoto blurts before he can stop himself. “Don’t move! Stay exactly how you are.”

Haru raises a brow, like saying ‘what the fuck’ with just the slightest change in expression.

“Okay…”

Haru stays still, legs crossed beneath the edge of the coat. It’s perfect, Makoto doesn’t know how Haru’s doing it. The way the coat sits, exposing enough to hint that there’s very little beneath the fabric, but covering just enough to leave the viewer wondering. Makoto cannot let Haru move until he can capture this.

Makoto pulls out his camera, nerves and worries left somewhere outside the metal door of the art space and does what he hasn’t done for the last four months, two weeks, and three days. Shoot. Over, and over, shutter snapping almost constant. It feels right, Makoto can’t remember the last time he’s had photos just fall into place like this. Everything looks exactly right, the greys and browns of the background against the ethereal glow of Haru’s skin makes Makoto wonder how can this even be real. The way the dark fabric folds around Haru’s thighs, the dip of waist, climbing up to delicate, little shoulders, all ending in what drew Makoto to Haru in the first place. A chin so pointy and perfectly shaped, it’s like it’s been chiseled out of marble. A jawline so straight and defined, it’s like it’s been drawn in with a single, precisely placed line. Cheekbones so high and prominent, it’s like they glow from beneath the skin. It’s all complimentary to one thing- dark eyes that can tell stories without words, can look like they’re alive on paper, glowing like the cleanest cut sapphire beneath the dirty lights of the art space.

“You’re perfect. Just stay like that for a little longer, so I can get a close u-”

“No pictures above the neck.”

It’s the most impossible thing Makoto’s ever heard.

“What?” He watches Haru through the viewfinder, getting every movement of lips and eyebrows.

“My face can’t be in any of the pictures.”

“But…why?”

Haru scowls, deep and cut into pretty, perfect skin.

“That’s a stupid question.”

Makoto doesn’t think so.

“But…you’re so…”

“Disfigured. Damaged. A little bit fucked up.” _Perfect. Beautiful. Everything._

“I mean-”

“Neck and below.”

Makoto doesn’t want to be disappointed, because he still gets to be here, gets to be the one to capture Haru. He holds the camera back up, frames the photo so it cuts off before Haru’s chin, and shoots. He looks back at the screen and thinks, yeah, it looks good. All the right lines, all the right curves, arch of Haru’s back curved just right.

Makoto frowns, just a little bit, because without Haru’s face, what’s the point if it’s just a body?

“Okay,” Makoto says, even though it isn’t, but it’s not like he has a right to say otherwise.

“Okay.” Haru drops the coat, lets it thump into the dirt. Makoto watches as collar bones come into view, follows the thin straps across narrow shoulders down to swirls of black lace. They frame Haru’s chest like a heart, delicate and clinging to all the right places, like Haru’s body is where it belongs.

Legs swing off the box and feet touch down to the ground. Makoto follows, like his eyes were made to look. He follows the wisp of the waist, the beautiful blue scales that look like they’re growing out of the pearly white skin, follows them until they disappear beneath the waistband sewn in patterned lace. Makoto wants to reach forward, run his fingers over every scale, count them all out one by one, anything to keep Haru here longer.

“Are you ready?” Haru’s voice is so soft, so gentle, and every single little thing Makoto learns about Haru just fits; absolutely perfect, just the way Haru is.

“As long as you are.”

And Makoto means it.

 

Makoto manages to keep in check, as long as he doesn’t look at Haru’s face.

“Lower, arms out more, a little more, head down, right there. Hold it.” The shutter snaps. 39.

“Okay, last one. You look great.”

Haru leans back, exhales, and curls onto the ground. A hand raises like a paw and presses up to a cheek. Makoto flushes dark and holds the camera straight up to his face.

“I thought you said no faces?”

He feels a little dejected, to be honest.

“This is fine, I’m covering most of my face anyways.” Haru turns to the side, bangs hiding whatever the hand isn’t.

“Okay…um. Back arched, a little more. Curl your toes in…Open your mouth a little…Hold it.” Makoto looks through the viewfinder. He doesn’t know how much longer he can take of this.

The shutter clicks. 40.

And it’s over.

Makoto stands up, joints cracking and knees popping. He groans and places his hands over the small of his back.

“That’s it! We did it, it’s all done. Good job, Haru. You looked-”

“Thanks. But we’re not done yet.” Haru rolls over, back flat against the ground. Arms stretch overhead, and Makoto hears a little sound, something that might be like a whine, maybe might be like a purr - he hates himself.

“W-what do you mean?” Makoto has to look down, away from Haru’s face.

“The last five.” Haru nods towards a box. The box Nagisa had given him. Makoto pales.

“We need 40 photos, plus five extra with full nudity for the VIP set, so 45 photos of our cute little Haru-chan here!”

Oh god.

“Oh! Um. Right. Yeah. Um.”

Haru’s eyes roll, and Makoto thinks he can hear them turning in the socket.

“Calm down.”

“Okay!”

“Convincing.” Haru sighs. “It’s okay. Take five photos, they don’t have to even be framed well. You know exactly what these are for, no one needs these to be high quality for them to get their job done.”

Makoto swallows.

“Yeah. Of course.”

“We’ll be done soon.” Haru unhooks the bra and folds it on top of one of the crates. Makoto wants to start crying a little bit. Pale bare flesh with raised, pink nubs that Makoto just wants to-

No. Stop it.

Haru raises a brow.

“What? You’ve never seen a guy’s chest before?”

Makoto flushes to the tips of his ears.

“Of course I have! But I mean…You’re not…” he trails off again.

“You keep doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Trailing off. What are you trying to say?”

Makoto fiddles with his fingers.

“You’re not…really a guy…like other guys I’ve - or at least, that’s what I keep thinking. Sorry, I didn’t say anything because I don’t like assuming things…”

Haru blinks. Eyebrows raise until they disappear behind inky black hair.

“No. That’s. You’re not assuming anything. You’re right. I just don’t usually. Say anything to anyone about it.”

Makoto laughs, a little bit nervous, but a little less strained.

“I went to art school. I get these kinds of things. Besides. Haru is Haru, aren’t they?”

Haru’s mouth falls open, like they want to say something, but nothing comes out. Makoto keeps going.

“You’re just so. Nice. To look at. I feel like I’m not allowed to look or something.” Makoto feels his mouth’s running like it’s an open faucet. He physically has to force his jaw closed.

Haru looks away.

“You’ve been looking all day. It’s your job. And it’s my job to be looked at.”

Haru hooks their fingers in the waistband of their underwear. The nervousness is back, crawling right up Makoto’s chest until it beats in his throat.

“Let’s get this done, okay?”

Makoto swallows.

“Okay.”

The little piece of lace falls to the ground and Haru kicks it off to disappear into a corner. Makoto swallows, over and over and over again, like he’s trying to eat his own nerves.

“Look, if you can’t do this I can ask Nagisa-”

“I’m fine! Its okay!” Makoto blurts, because no, he won’t quit. He feels like there’s something he needs to prove, prove that he isn’t going to go home to Tokyo empty-handed.

“Just five.”

Haru lays back down on the ground, legs bowed and toes pointed in. They run a hand over their chest, and Makoto feels his breath catch. Their head lolls to the side, gem-cut eyes all half lidded and making Makoto feel more than any words that have been whispered into his ear in the past.

Little pink tongue darts out to wet plush, soft-looking lips, eyes raking straight over Makoto’s body, like Haru’s saying-

“Hurry up…” It comes out all raspy, like they’re trying to tell a secret. It makes Makoto shiver, from the base of his spine to the roots of his hair, he feels his entire body tremble.

He holds his camera up with unsteady hands, presses his eye into the viewfinder and centers Haru’s pretty lithe limbs in the frame.

Haru stares straight up at him, like their eyes can pierce through the lens. Makoto feels like he’s being consumed, eaten up without even being touched, he’s so fucked, it’s been less than 24 hours and he feels absolutely taken, absolutely absorbed, and the worst part is Makoto can’t even place what’s got him so bad.

The shutter snaps.

“One.” Haru practically breathes out, rolling onto their side and reaching for that fucking box. Makoto had hoped Haru’d forget about it, because if they actually use what’s in there, he’s 100% sure he’ll die right here, right on the floor of the art space.

They’re soft and black, matches the hair on Haru’s head just right. If Makoto had to guess, Nagisa had picked them; it seems very Nagisa-like to be observant of things like that. Haru clips them onto their head, or tries. They mumble beneath their breath, fiddling with tufts of their hair and the clips.

“Hey.” Haru motions with their hand to the top of their head.

“Huh? What?” Very eloquent, Makoto thinks, as he feels sweat beading at the back of his neck. When Haru turns their head, Makoto follows, eyes locked on to the pointed tips of the ears poking out from black hair, all askew and off center. He wonders what his problem is, where he went wrong, what god he needs to pray to to atone for this sin.

“Help me. I can’t get these on right.”

Makoto almost drops his camera straight to the ground.

“O-okay…” he crawls over to Haru’s side, hands shaking as he places them above their head. He threads his fingers through impossibly soft dark hair, lets his hands linger to pet through the fake fur of the ears. He centers them on the top of Haru’s head and lets himself curl his fingers at the nape of their neck, twirling strands of hair between sweaty fingertips.

Haru hums, almost-purr like, and Makoto wants them to curl up in his lap, let him stroke through their hair forever.

“Thank you.” Haru whispers in his ear, and Makoto thinks there’s something wrong with him, because it makes his spine crawl, makes him feel like he’s 16 again, stumbling virgin having dirty things whispered into his ear for the first time.

Makoto indulges, lets his fingers trail down the side of Haru’s neck and over the curve of their shoulder.

“Should we keep going?” Makoto mumbles, wonders why they’re whispering, because no one else is around to hear them.

“Okay.” They say, and Makoto wants to believe he hears a flit of disappointment in their voice when Makoto stands up and walks back to stand in front of Haru. He kneels on the ground and attempts to be as objective and artful as possible.

“Can you sit up and turn around for me?”

Haru shrugs.

“Whatever you say.” They turn, folding their knees beneath their hips. Ears stand up straight, at attention and ready to listen. Toes flex, spine curls, and Makoto has to dig nails into the back of his hand to keep himself in check. Because Haru from this angle, the bleed of skinny little waist into the swell of his ass, Makoto just wants to-

“Hold it.”

The shutter clicks

“Two.”

Haru’s reaching back into the box again, and Makoto’s ready to start pulling his own hair out, anything to keep himself together.

He’s staring at the ground, because nothing interesting is happening in the gravel beneath his feet, when he hears the familiar sound of plastic popping, deafening and piercing in the art space. It makes Makoto look up, which is fucking dumb, stupid, absolutely the worst thing he could possibly do for himself.

“Nngh…” Haru whines, and Makoto doesn’t know what to do, where to look. He feels his stomach drop, turn circles beneath his skin. It’s too much, it’s everything Makoto didn’t know he wanted, needed, but doesn’t want to let himself have it.

“Is it all the way in?”

Makoto wants to faint. He takes a look, false tail raised high between Haru’s legs. Makoto wants to run his hand from the tip to the base where it meets wet, puckered skin - wants to press it in further until-

“Y-yeah, it’s in.” Makoto coughs, thinks he could cough up all his dignity if he really tried hard enough.

Haru wiggles, tail waving in the air and Makoto has to cover his face.

“It feels- like it’s not in right. Can you-”

“Yeah. Yeah okay. Sure, just let me-” Makoto scrambles forward on his knees, ungraceful and tactless. He runs his hand down the tail, taking the chance and pushing down-

“A-ah. Shit.” Haru pants, dipping their head down, back arcing in, ass raised in the air.

“Sorry! Are you…?”

“Fine. It’s fine. Just. Hurry and take the picture.” Makoto can see Haru’s shoulders trembling, light pink flush dusting milky flesh.

“Okay, okay. Just hold it for a second, okay?” Makoto presses the camera to his face, hands unsteady and ready to give.

The shutter snaps.

“T-three.” Haru flips over, knees drawn up to their chest, lips all swollen and wet, parting just a little bit around tiny shallow pants. Makoto bites his lips and risks it, leans in to wipe his hand across Haru’s forehead.

“Ah-” They lean forward, noses almost touching, half lidded eyes filling Makoto’s vision all black and blue.

Bare thighs brush up on Makoto’s sides, and Makoto can’t help it anymore. He runs hands over those gorgeous blue scales, feels the uneven skin beneath his fingertips, but he can’t think a single thing of it. Haru jerks forward, and Makoto feels them pressed up between their stomachs, all stiff and dripping and-

“Nnn!”

They don’t make it to five.

 

Haru’s still barely clothed, dirty coat draped over their shoulders as they stumble through the halls of the house and into Makoto’s bedroom. The lock clicks behind them, and they expect to be shoved down into the mattress, hard, rough, and they brace themselves for the impact.

It never comes.

It’s so. Tender. That’s what it feels like as Makoto lays them down, soft and gentle like he’s afraid they’ll shatter in between his fingers.

“The lamp-” They try, reaching over to the bedside table.

“No, please. Can we- I like looking at you?” Makoto phrases it like a question, like he's asking for permission.

Haru’s never done this with the lights on. It makes them want to pull the covers straight up over themselves, hide beneath the age-stained sheets so that Makoto can’t see, can’t see them just like everyone else that’s come before him.

But, Haru thinks Makoto could see everything, even in absolute darkness.

They don’t know if they like it or not.

“I-is this okay?”

Haru’s never been asked that before.

“Okay?” They ask it like they don’t know what the word “okay” means.

“Like. You look- you feel like you’re trying to hide or something.” Its unsettling, how Makoto can figure everything out even before Haru does themselves. Haru shakes their head, bangs whipping in front of their eyes so at least they can’t see that Look on Makoto’s face, like he’s-

“Don't worry, it's nothing. Don’t you want to do this?” They lean forward, knees pressing into the mattress, springs creaking angrily like they’re saying don’t, don’t, _don’t_. They press the tips of their fingers against Makoto’s neck, stroking soft, sun-kissed skin like it’s a gift they’ll never get to experience again.

“I mean…Only if you want it, too.”

Haru tilts their head, because they don’t understand.

“I do.”

“No, I mean, really want to.” Haru thinks about what the word “really” means. They think about the word “okay”, think about all the times they’ve said things they don’t really mean. And looking at Makoto, the way that it makes Haru feel like they can’t just say “it’s fine” like they always do, it almost-

“I really do.” Makes Haru scared. Because Haru’s not sure they remember what it feels like to not lie to themselves anymore.

But then Makoto smiles, all light and soft around the edges, like it’s been smudged in with the tips of delicate fingers and Haru can’t think of a reason to be scared anymore.

“That’s good. That’s really good.” Makoto tucks his head in the crook of Haru’s shoulder, presses the tenderest of kisses against the side of their neck, more like a light ghosting of lips against skin to say “thank you”.

Haru isn’t sure what Makoto’s saying thank you for, but they turn their head, nose pressed into locks that smell like lemon and sugar and whispers “Okay.”

* * *

Haru’s in the kitchen when he hears the shutter click. They bring hands to their face out of habit.

“What was that for?” They put the the ladle down, brow raised as Makoto looks down at his camera, stupid goofy smile playing across his lips.

“You were singing. I dunno, I thought it was worth taking a picture of.”

“Delete it.” Haru says flatly, turning back to the stew. They take a sip. Salty.

“Aww, come on. Please?” Makoto looks at them, pout and glossy green eyes that Haru knows they can’t say no to.

“Fine. Just don’t send them to press or anything.”

Makoto’s face brightens, which Haru thinks is a stupid thing to get happy over.

“Then, as long as I don’t send them to press, can I keep taking pictures of you? For me?”

Haru looks at Makoto, face all eager and expectant. They don’t get it, what Makoto’s so damn excited about, over a picture of them cooking.

“I mean. I guess.” Haru shrugs. “Whatever makes you happy. As long as I don’t have to do anything.”

“Just be you, that’s all you have to do.” Haru doesn’t know what that means.

“Sure.”

Makoto sits down at the dining table, flicking through photos on his camera.

“What did you used to take pictures of before you came here?” Haru tries. They know they aren’t good at this, this connecting thing.Talking. Keeping people around. For some reason, they feel like it’s worth trying this time.

“Oh. Uh. I-I don’t really know?” Makoto clicks away at his camera again. “Scenery. Cityscapes. Cats.”

“Is that last part supposed to be a joke?”

Makoto flushes; Haru’s noticed it’s easy to make Makoto blush. They don’t mind it.

“No! Like - real cats!” Makoto scratches his head, pout spreading across his face again.

“Speaking of cats!” Nagisa jumps up onto the table, nearly knocking Makoto’s camera to the floor. He scrambles forward, saving it before the lens can crack across the ground.

“The feedback for the last zine is back - even though we were only able to get 3 instead of 5 VIP package photos for SOME reason… - we oversold by almost double! I knew it was a good idea to try stealing your camera!” Nagisa knocks Makoto out of his seat with a congratulatory shove. He tosses an envelope onto the table, thick and full of worn bills.

“Maybe with the extra money we I can get that HUGE succulent at the greenery down the hill…”

Haru snatches the money off the tabletop.

“Or we can pay the water bill so I don’t have to measure my bath water anymore.”

Nagisa whines and throws his head down on the table.

“But Haru-chan!!! Big giant succulent! Like **THIS BIG** giant! Just do what I do, shower less and you’ll have more time in your day anyways!”

“Disgusting.” Haru pulls spices down from the cabinet, sprinkling them on the surface of the stew.

“Oh! Speaking of huge succulents, Mako-chan, you look like a pretty strong guy, can you help me move Maki-chan and Todou-chan in from outside?”

They clatter out of the kitchen and into the garden.

Haru watches them from the kitchen window, the two of them moving Nagisa’s vast collection of succulents all around the back of the house. Somehow, Haru feels like Makoto’s fit right in, made himself a part of the family without even needing to try.

“Hey.” Haru hears a chair drag across the kitchen floor.

“What? It was finally quiet in here. Do you need something?” Haru turns to face away from the stove, matching Sousuke's deadpan expression perfectly.

“You haven’t been with us in a while. What's going on?”

“Nothing’s going on. I just haven’t felt like it.”

Sousuke scoffs, crossing his arms across his chest.

“Have anything to do with what's going on outside the window? You look fucking stupid, staring out there like a goddamn housewife cooking for her husband.”

Haru unties his apron and hangs it on the hook above the pantry.

“I just haven’t felt like it. Do I really need another reason?”

“Yeah. Because you always feel like it.”

Haru narrows their eyes. Sousuke continues.

“That’s just how you are, it’s like a part of you. You can’t just get bored and stop coming when you feel like it.”

“I’m not your boyfriend,” Haru says flatly, turning the stove on low to keep the stew warm before dinner.

“You’re not his either.” Sousuke leans back in his chair until it scrapes up against the wall behind him.

“I’m not trying to be.” Haru leans over the counter, staring through the window.

“Then. I’ll see you tonight?” Sousuke stands from the table and props himself up next to Haru. He leans in, tilts Haru’s chin up so they can’t look away.

Haru hesitates, glances towards the window again. They don’t know what they’re hesitating for, why they suddenly feel unsure, nervous even. They’ve lost track of the number of times they’ve done this, but for some reason, now-

“Sure.” Haru has to almost force it out, and when Sousuke walks away with a “Good.” they let their knees buckle beneath them, lets themselves sink to the kitchen floor, and wonder why exactly they feel so scared.

 

Haru wonders how long it takes for wounds to heal, how long until they stop splitting open again.

It rips them open from the inside, burn and stretch like it’s always been. It’s something Haru should be used to, something Haru is used to.

So, why does it hurt again?

There’s a hand on their back, shoving them straight down into the mattress until they can’t breath, muffling a scream straight into the pillows.

“He’s louder than usual.” Rin remarks, teeth sinking into the side of Haru’s neck.

“It’s been a while, let him adjust.”

“That takes too long.”

He’s turned over, rough and careless like he’s a ragdoll. It’s just like how he remembers, so why is it suddenly-

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Sousuke says, hand yanking Haru’s chin straight. “Like you’re scared some scared virgin or something?”

Haru scowls, throwing his head to the side. He doesn’t want to be looked at, not like this.

“We know that’s not what you are, you fucking slut.”

Haru’s used to that, used to being called that, so why does it make him feel so wrong this time? Haru feels his hips aching, like the skin is opening up again.

“He’s acting weird, Sou. It’s kinda-” Rin backs away, frown tugging at his lips. Haru flails, he is not acting weird, it’s the same, same as it always is.

“Yeah. I know.” Sousuke lets go of his chin, moves away until the shadows are gone, and Haru feels the sudden need to hide.

He pulls the sheet over himself, shivers beneath the fabric.

He doesn’t get it.

What’s wrong with him?

“This isn’t fun anymore.” Sousuke mumbles, springs creaking beneath the mattress as the weight shifts. “What happened to you?”

Haru doesn’t know.

“Figure it out, Haru.”

Haru doesn’t know how.

Sousuke pulls the sheet back and throws clothes onto the bed.

“Sorry.” Haru grips the fabric between his fingers, slides it over his head with slow, shaky hands.

“Are you…?”

Haru doesn’t know what he’s done wrong this time.

“Guess it’s better to not do this anymore.”

Haru leaves Rin and Sousuke’s room, numb feeling settling back into the deepest part of his chest. He clutches at his shirt, clutches at his skin, feels like ripping it up again.

And the worst part is, Haru doesn’t understand why.

 

The commune is quiet after midnight. It’s a sound Haru’s gotten used to - the sounds of heavy sleep and sweet dreams. Haru’s usually not a part of any of that.

It’s always been hard for him to sleep. Dreams are filled with roaming hands and aching skin. Haru isn’t sure if he remembers how to sleep right, can’t remember the last time he slept while the moon was out, like a normal person.

He’s staring at the crack of light leaking out beneath the door. He wants to knock, wants to let himself in, but he has no idea why because what exactly is he looking for here?

Haru doesn’t understand it. Doesn’t know what he’s looking for, doesn’t know what he wants. He’s never wanted anything in his life, except…

Normalcy.

“Haru?”

It makes Haru jump. He steps away from the door, like a startled animal that needs to be coaxed.

“I can see your shadow. You’ve been standing out there for a while now.”  

Haru doesn’t say anything, just slides down onto the floor, back pressed against the door.

“Do you want to come in…?”

“No.”

“Okay…”

The commune is quiet after midnight. Haru can hear Nagisa snoring, Rin talking in his sleep. But the light is on here, flooding into the dark hallway. Makoto’s light is always on, Haru thinks, bright and lighting up anything.

“How do you smile so easily?” Haru asks, head against the door.

“What do you mean?”

“Exactly what it sounds like.” Haru closes his eyes. He can picture Makoto shrugging in his bed, juggling his camera in his hands.

“I’m not sure. It’s easier to smile a lot, makes harder things seem less real, you know?”

“It’s nice.”

“Hm?”

“The smile. It’s nice.” _Makes everything brighter. Makes everything a little easier to see_. Haru hears Makoto chuckle.

“Thank you. But…”

“But what?”

“It’s nothing on yours, you know.”

Haru covers his mouth without even thinking about it.

“I don’t know how to.” _I don’t remember how. I don’t remember what it feels like_.

Makoto mumbles something, but Haru can’t make it out through the door.

“Haru, are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“No, I mean. Are you okay?”

“You just asked that.”

“Because you didn’t answer me.”

“I said I’m fine.”

“That doesn’t mean anything. Do you even know what ‘fine’ means anymore?”

Haru stops. He thinks about that, thinks about all the times he’s said “I’m fine”, thinks about how he feels like he can’t say it to Makoto.

“No.”

The door clicks open, and Haru falls onto his back. Makoto’s standing over him, smiling down like it’s a permanent part of his face. Haru’s jealous, wishes he could look like that all the time, smiling and bright like the way normal people are supposed to look.

“What’s wrong?” _Nothing. Everything. You. Me._

Haru pulls him down, grabs the collar of his shirt and just does what he knows how to do. _Avoid, pretend, ignore._

It’s a kiss that hurts, teeth clicking and lips bruising. Haru wants his mouth to go numb, wants everything about him to go numb until he can’t tell difference between happy and sad.

“Haru - wait. H-haru.”

Haru doesn’t want to wait.

“No- Haru. Stop-Haru. Haru- the bed. Haru. Haru!”

Haru’s head is swimming with his own name, over and over and over again.

“Stop saying my name so much.”

“But. That’s who you are? Haru.”

“I know that.”

Makoto leans in, cups his face all gentle between his hands. Thumbs trace over blotching skin, and it makes Haru want to turn away. But he’s held there, eyes locked into wet, earthy green, and he can’t help but feel anything but safe.

“Sometimes I think you need to be reminded, Haru.”

They’re lifted up in strong, sturdy arms and placed, not thrown, shoved, or dragged, onto the mattress, soft beneath their bones.

“There, better, right?” Makoto climbs up on top of them, shadow casting big and dark from the dim lamp light. It’s not the same as the shadows usually are, intimidating and possessive like they’ll eat Haru whole. It feels safe, secure, almost like home.

Haru doesn’t know how to deal with that.

Haru peels their clothes off for the second time that night, but it feels different this time, and Haru doesn’t understand. Why were they so scared, but not scared now? They don’t understand, they can’t understand.

“You’re always so-”

Haru doesn’t want to hear it, can’t bear to hear it. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. Haru can’t be looked at, they’re not worth that, that’s not what they’re meant to be. They’re not meant for this.

“Hurry.” Haru feels like they’re always hurrying.

“What do you need?” Haru doesn’t know.

“Fuck me” Make me feel the way I’m supposed to feel.

They fumble in the dirty light of the broken lamp, clumsy and wrong-feeling because Haru can’t help but repeating over and over and over _you’re not worth this you’re not worth this you’re not worth this._

It’s too soft, the way Makoto pulls in and out, it almost feels like they’re being cradled. Taken care of. Maybe even-

No. That’s not what they're for.

“Flip me over.” _So you can’t see my face._

“But-”

“Please.” They’re whining at this point, arms pressed over their eyes as if that makes them invisible. Makoto snaps his hips forward and it’s not hard enough for Haru, not punishing enough, can still feel themselves intact on the inside, can still feel a little bit human.

They hate it, they hate that they can feel.

Fingers are stroking the backs of Haru’s hands, pushing them apart like saying “open up”, but Haru interlocks their fingers, like saying “let me be”.

“Don’t you know?” Makoto says it to himself, probably, but Haru hears it, and they think no, they don’t know anything. They never know.

Warm hands are running up their sides, palming over sensitive nubs that make Haru’s spine arch of the bed with a little _ahn_! And Haru thinks it feels wrong, they feel wrong, but Makoto feels right and-

Strong arms are rolling them over, and it’s so gentle, it’s always so gentle, why is it so gentle, doesn’t Makoto understand it’s so much harder that way?

“Better?” Warmth presses along Haru’s back, lips comforting and soft against the nape of their neck. Haru breathes in, and they try to ignore the way their breath shakes when Makoto nips at their skin.

“Yeah. Keep going. Harder.”

“Okay, whatever you need.”

Haru opens their mouth, wants to say _I don’t know how to need anything, I only know what other people want from me._

Makoto pushes in, slow, deep, hard, and Haru can feel the ache splitting their spine and it’s almost there, just a little bit-

“More, more!”

And Makoto obeys, hands gripping the dip of Haru’s waist and pulling them back, ass flush right up against the V of his hips.

Haru hangs their head low, moans all wanton and needy into the mattress because the louder they get, the faster they let go, the faster they forget, and maybe Makoto will too.

“Ah, Haru, you’re so-”

Haru screams, exaggerated and overdone, because no, they can’t deal with hearing their name, can’t deal with feeling like-

“Fuck me up,” they pant, leaning back further until Makoto’s so deep it feels like they’re about to rip straight in half.

“What?”

“Ruin me.” _Make me feel like everyone else makes me feel because I don’t know how to deal with how you make me feel._

“I don’t-”

“Call me a slut. Fuck me like a slut” _Don’t say my name, because I’m not worth one anymore._

Makoto stops. Haru feels the grip in his hands tighten, loosen, then tighten again, like he doesn’t know how to feel, what to do, what to say.

“…why?”

“Because.” _Call me what I am, because I am not a Person or an Individual anymore, don’t you see that?_

“Is that what everyone else calls you?” _Isn’t it obvious?_

Haru turns their head to the side , burying it into the pillows.

“Is that what you want to be called?” Makoto’s running a hand over the small of Haru’s back, comforting and affectionate, and all Haru wants to do is shove the hand to his throat, and whisper “wreck me” because it hurts less that way than struggling to understand.

“Do you ask why everyone calls you your name?” Haru asks, leaning their hips back to rock slow, and they feel themselves starting to lose, starting to-

“Haru.” Makoto slips out and snaps forward, straight into where Haru needs him most. They whine, almost mewl, and they want to cover their ears because its so vulnerable, so close-

“Haru.” Makoto presses them down, strong, open palm in the middle of their back. Haru flattens against the mattress and it should feel the way they’re used to. But it doesn’t, it feels safe, protected, and-

“Haruka.”

Haru hates their name. Hates the way it sounds, hates the way it feels on their tongue when they need to say it out loud. Hates the way that it’s so elegant, and Haru knows that’s everything they aren’t.

_Haruka, Haruka, Haruka._

Over and over again, right into the crook of their neck, right into their ear, Haru hears it, soft and gentle and almost like maybe, it’s-

“Beautiful.” And Haru doesn’t know when it starts, when Makoto’s flipped them over to face everything, but there’s that smile again, the smile that’s been etched in soft shades that match the earth, and Haru doesn’t know why they’re underwater, why it looks like Haru’s drowning and Makoto’s ready to pull them up to the surface.

“You’re so beautiful. Please don’t cry.”

_Beautiful. Haru. Haruka._

_Ruin me._

_Fuck me up._

“Haruka. That’s your name, isn’t it?”

For the first time, Haru comes first. They come looking at everything, facing everything, open and vulnerable with no barriers, no _I’m fine’s_ that really mean _I’m anything but_.

Makoto brings them down, arms around their back, head pressing into his chest whispering “thank you”.

It’s long after Makoto falls asleep, snores ruffling the top of Haru’s hair. Their cheeks hurt, sore and tired around the centers. They press fingertips into the skin, and for the first time, Haru thinks they’ve remembered how to smile.

* * *

“No, I’ve never really seen stars before.”

The entire commune stares at him like he’s told them he isn’t gay. Rin’s sandwich falls out of his mouth. Sousuke mumbles “He’s an idiot, right?”

“How have you not seen stars? They’re there like. All the time. Right, Rei-chan?”

“Yes. To say you haven’t seen stars is to say you’ve never looked into the sky at night, which honestly, sounds incredibly difficult to claim.”

Makoto shrugs.

“In Tokyo, the pollution is so bad, we can’t really see the sky clearly. When I was a kid, I used to think airplanes were shooting stars. I used to wish on airplanes. Isn’t that sad?” Makoto takes a bite of his own sandwich, chewing hard as his family looks at him with expressions resembling pity.

“That’s fucked up.” Rin mumbles. “That’s a fucked up childhood right there, never saw stars as a kid, what the fuck.”

“Yeah, childhood is pretty fucked up. I used to be a girl, that’s pretty fucked up huh?” Nagisa sprays crumbs across the table and accidentally spits in Sousuke’s eye.

“Yeah, that is fucked up, especially with your table manners. What kind of girl eats like that?”

Nagisa rolls his eyes.

“Girls that fall into your concept of the gender-normative binary.” He ends the sentence with a rather large chunk of salami flying across the table and landing right between Sousuke’s eyebrows. It keeps him quiet.

“Well, Momo used to think he was straight, so I think he has us all beat.” Rin leans back in his chair. Nagisa crosses himself.

“I’m almost 100% positive that Momotarou was not heterosexual, but the events that lead to his eventual leave of absence from the commune contradicts that, so I’m not sure what to make of him sometimes.” Rei cuts his sandwich up with a knife and spokes a piece on the tines of his fork.

“Okay. Can I ask a question?”

“Of course, as long as it’s not about what stars look like, because honey, you really should just go outside.” Nagisa wipes his hand across his mouth, which Rei then wipes with his own napkin.

“What happened to Momotarou? Is he like…dead?”

“Worse than dead.”

“Oh, absolutely worse than dead.”

“If I were him I’d rather be dead.”

Makoto is thoroughly confused.

“What’s worth than being dead.”

Nagisa leans in and whispers.

“He thinks he’s straight. And is in love with a queer girl.”

Rin leans in as well.

“The queer girl is my sister. Who is dating his sister.”

Makoto leans back this time and stares up at the ceiling. He is relieved. He’s spent the last two months believing he had been changing, sleeping, and having sex in a room that someone had died in.

“Why do you keep crossing yourself whenever you talk about him then?”

“Because I’m praying that he finds his way some day.”

Makoto learns to not ask questions anymore.

 

As Makoto helps Haru with the dishes, something occurs to him.

Momotarou, the enigmatic straight ex-photographer used to do photos for Haru.

“Haru, how did you and Momotarou work together if he was-”

“We didn’t.” A pan clatters to the bottom of the sink. “He was awful. Aggressively heterosexual, called me and Nagisa the t-word consistently without realizing it was a problem. I didn’t let him take my pictures. The zine went on hiatus for three months. I was limited to 4 minute showers for three months because of him.” Haru throws the steel wool into the sink and walks away.

Makoto has definitely learned to not ask questions.

“By the way.”  Haru’s back by Makoto’s side, handing him a towel. “You said you’d never seen stars before. Tonight, if I feel like it. I might be at the firepit. I hear stars sometimes appear at night.”

Makoto smacks Haru with the wet towel.

 

The shutter clicks.

“They really are beautiful at night.”

Haru stares at him.

“Say that again.” Makoto blinks.

“They really are beautiful at night?” Makoto doesn’t get it. Haru’s lips twitch. They pull at the corners, their eyes crinkle with little folds right at the edges. It starts quiet, like little quick exhales until they’re hands are over their stomach, hunched over with tears beading over dark rings of sapphire. It’s so light and airy, pure and sweet to Makoto’s ears. Plush lips spread open over perfect white teeth, and Makoto’s never seen a smile quite so genuine, never heard a laugh so honest and open.

Makoto is in awe. He almost forgets to pick up his camera.

“Do you really not know how stars work, Makoto?”

Makoto’s lost, all he hears is his name because he loves the way Haru’s voice sounds when they say it.

“No, not really.” Haru leans up, places arms over Makoto’s shoulders.

“Tokyo must be a strange place. No stars. How sad.”

Makoto doesn’t really think so, as he looks down into eyes that twinkle just like the night sky. He thinks he could live without them, if he could trade them for this.

Makoto is right.

They really are beautiful at night.

* * *

“Are you absolutely positive?”  Haru asks, wrapping the string tight around their needle. “Because Kou could do this instead…”

“I trust you.”

“And you said you wanted…?”

“A compass that always points west.”

Haru pauses, needle soaking in the vial of ink.

“…What?”

“A compass that always points west.”

“What does that even mean?”

Makoto shrugs noncommittally.

“It’ll keep me from getting lost.”

“…okay.”

Haru stares at the design outlined on the inside of Makoto’s wrist. Simple and minimalistic, the arrow points directly into Haru’s chest. They don’t understand what use a compass that always points west would be in any situation. But Haru’s learned to never question a client, so they shrug and draw the needle from the vial.

“You ready?”

“As long as you are.”

Haru’s learning it’s getting a little easier to smile.

* * *

Makoto can’t believe Haru went for this.

Makoto can’t believe Haru asked for this.

“Are you absolutely positive?” Makoto’s holding his camera like it’s a bomb ready to burst; this is nuts, absolutely wrong, Makoto can’t even get himself to-

“I trust you.”

Makoto is skeptical.

“Are. Is this really what you want?” _Or are you just trying to please me?_ Makoto hates that idea, just the thought of Haru feeling like he needs to do something like this to make him happy. It makes Makoto’s chest burn, because he’d be happy just sitting next to them, side to side, getting to see that smile a little more, getting to hear that laugh a little more.

“Yes.”

Makoto squirms. It feels wrong. Every single day, Makoto looks at Haru thinking _you are so much more than you give yourself credit for_. Spends every single day wishing Haru could understand that too, understand what Makoto sees, what Makoto feels, and he thought maybe, slowly, they were starting to meet halfway.

But now this…

Haru’s grabbing his wrist, looking up at him with those big, doe-like eyes that make Makoto question his judgement on anything.

 _Please_ , they say without words.

 _Okay_ , Makoto says back in silence.

 

The shutter snaps, and Haru moans, back arching as Makoto pulls down on their hips.

“Oh, you look so good, perfect, look at me now.” Haru turns their head, lolling it to the side.

“That’s it, look at me like you want me. Look at me with those eyes- yeah, that’s it.” Makoto frames Haru in the viewfinder just right, gets that pretty flush crawling down their bared neck, bra straps hanging limp off skinny shoulders. Haru wets their lips, little cock swollen and hard against their abdomen, smearing a mess of pearly pre-cum over perfect iridescent skin.

“Good kitten, you’re doing so good for me.” Haru mewls, rocking in Makoto’s lap all impatient and wound up. It’s amazing, how open and loose Haru’s gotten since they first started playing this game, it makes Makoto want to-

“Nnn, hurry, hurry, please fuck me…”

Makoto snaps his hips up, hard, right there, deeper, more, fuck-

“Ah, ah- close, gonna-” Makoto strokes up Haru’s sides, over those beautiful scales, down that slim perfect waist.

“Come on, Haruka. Show me.” Makoto holds the camera up, positions it just right and-

The shutter snaps as Haru spills right onto their stomach, cum splattering up their chest and trickling down to just barely drip over the scales along their hips. They’re loud, head tossed back and pretty lips split open by a high-pitched whine. It makes Makoto groan, amazing, so good, so perfect.

“Lay down for me, baby.”

“Ah,” is all Haru can manage as Makoto lays them down and pulls out.

“Turn over for me?”

Haru hums and flips themselves over, ass raised up into the air just like Makoto likes it. He palms the cheeks and spreads them apart, Haru whining beneath him.

“Perfect.” He raises the camera, takes in Haru’s pink and slicked-up hole through the view finder. The shutter clicks.

“I just want to-” Makoto leans forward, tongue lapping up around the edge, cleaning up all the cum and lube spilling over the edge.

“Oh god- Makoto! I just- no, ahn-!” Makoto will never get used to how addicting Haru tastes, how Haru feels, tight and wet all the way around.

“You hard again? You just can’t get enough, can you? On your back now.” Haru moans, impatient and almost pained as they roll over onto their back again.

Makoto will never be able to believe that Haru is real. Long slender legs bow in like they’re meant to shoot arrows, tipping off in toes that curl the moment that Makoto wraps a hand around that pretty pink cock, begging to be milked dry.

Makoto lifts Haru’s wrist, limp and tired, presses their hand against his own dick.

“Me too, is that okay?”

Haru’s eyes light up, filled up to to the brim with dark pupils.

“Yeah, yeah, please…” They grip tight, fist coming down to the base easy and pulling right up to the head. A thumb dips into the slit, and Makoto hisses, hips bucking forward as he fucks into Haru’s hand.

“Come for me, Makoto. Get it all over me.”

Makoto laughs, breathy and high in his throat.

“My pretty cum slut...” It slips out, and Makoto almost freezes when he says it. He wants to take it back, swallow the words up whole and never let Haru hear them again, because he knows exactly what it’s done, knows exactly how it’s been said to them over, and over, and over again.

_“But I want you to say it.”_

_“But I can’t…” I can’t do that to you. I can’t be like everyone else. I don’t want to treat you like everyone else._

_“You can. It’s okay. It’s different with you.”_

Haru wails, thrashes their head against the ground, because Makoto’s learned that at some point, words they would have never said, never used, because they just carried too much, change over time, change into things that make Haru-

“Please!”

Their hand drops, and Makoto grasps himself in his own fist. He aims down, right at those pretty blue scales decorating Haru’s pretty sides.

“All over me.”

Makoto shudders, up his spine, to the tips of his toes it gets everywhere, all up along the scales, all over their chest, down their stomach. It mixes up with Haru’s cum, it’s a mess, a delightful mess.

That’s all it takes, what it takes to have Haru spill over the edge of Makoto’s fist.

 “Hold it.” Makoto wipes his hand on the ground, picks up the camera and shoots. He leans down and presses the softest kiss on Haru’s forehead.

“Thank you.”

Haru blinks. They shake their head, flips them both over until Haru’s head is against his chest.

“No. Thank you.”

“For what?”

And Haru looks at them again, big doe-like eyes spelling out words without sound.

_For trusting me. For teaching me to trust you. For replacing those words with you._

* * *

They’re laying in their room, Makoto’s soft breaths tickling their neck, when Haru first realizes it.

Haru wonders when Makoto’s room became “their” room, when they started sharing clothes, when they started laughing during sex and rolling onto their sides, arms wrapped around each other like they were meant to fit together.

Haru hasn’t slept with anyone else in four months, two weeks, and three days.

They wonder if that means something.

* * *

“No, Nagisa, it’s not like that, I-”

“You’ll hurt them, you know that, right?”

“I’m already hurting them,” Makoto strains, hands over their face. He can feel his pulse in his cheeks, thumping up in his ears. He can’t believe he let it get to this, but it has to happen. He knew this the minute he got here, the minute he set foot in this place, that eventually, it would happen.

And now it’s real, so real it can burn Makoto from the inside out.

Nagisa slips onto the mattress and pulls Makoto’s hands away from his face.

“I’m pretty sure you’re the only one who hasn’t done that,” Nagisa says, voice soft and low, like he’s afraid he’ll scare Makoto away if he talks too loudly.

“I shouldn’t have let this happen.”

Makoto’s in agony, actual agony, feels everything that he’s done rip him into pieces. He shouldn’t have followed Nagisa into the alleyway, should have let him take the camera and run. He should have gone home, learned how to be normal again, instead of trying to find something that could change him.

Now he’s changed, affected, in so desperately deep.

He remembers the first thing Haru ever said to him.

_“I hope you like sinking.”_

He’s stuck, sunken, and the harder he pulls the more it hurts to get out.

“You have to?”

Makoto pauses. He doesn’t have to. He can give it up. He can turn his back on the entire thing because he’s happy here. But he pictures Haru, face flaring something dangerous if they finds out. Can imagine what his eyes would say, silent screaming exchanged between their eyelids.

“I have to,” Makoto forces out, because he knows he has to. Nagisa smiles, the kind that looks sadder than tears.

“I know.”

“I don’t want to.” Makoto chokes back a sob. Because he doesn’t want to, wants everything to stay the way it is, freeze in time, because he’s found his change, what else more could be possibly need?

“But you have to. It’s okay.” Nagisa wraps arms around Makoto’s broad shoulders, and Makoto feels so small. He turns Makoto’s wrist over in his lap, compass up and pointing in the wrong direction.

“Just remember, you won’t ever get lost, just follow your compass west again.”

Makoto nods.

“Haru-chan’s really happy you’re here. That won’t ever change.”

Makoto just keeps nodding, it’s all he can do, because the sobs are running his throat dry, the tears are swimming up in his eyes, and the days are ticking away, away, _away_.

Four months, two weeks, and three days.

It’s less than one percent of his life.

He wishes it were more.

* * *

“You’re sure.”

“Yes.”

“I.” Haru stands up and walks to the other side of the room. They pace, hand pressed to the side of their mouth.

Makoto watches, head moving to follow them as they reach one side of the room, turn, and pace to the other side.

It takes a few minutes until Haru sits back down across from Makoto.

“I’ve never. Done this before.”

“Haru we’ve been doing this-”

“No I mean. Like. This.”

“Well I mean, yeah. That’s why I suggested it.”

“No.” Haru’s straining because they want Makoto to get it, get that is something they don’t know how to do.

“I mean. I’ve. Never. Ever. Done it like this before. _Ever_.” The emphasis on “ever” is what gets Makoto to understand. He opens his mouth in a silent “oh”. Haru looks away.

“I get it. Hey. That’s okay. I don’t mind.”

Haru’s eyes dart around, looking for something that isn’t Makoto to focus on. They tug on their fingers, nervous and feeling out of place. They’ve always had things done to them, been used to please others.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Haru pleads because they don’t.

“I don’t mind.”

“It’ll be shit.”

“Not with you. I trust you.”

“You trust people too easily,” Haru says, crawling up the bed and leaning Makoto back into the mattress.

“You get to me too easily…” Haru presses him down, thighs on either side of Makoto’s legs. They pull his arms up above his head, locking them in place with a hand around his wrists.They ignore the way their arms are trembling, from the base of their wrist all the way up to their shoulders.

“Relax, Haru.”

“I can’t- I’ve never…” _Been put in control. Made decisions. Made actions._ Haru doesn’t know how. It’s too much power, too much freedom.

“I want you.”

Haru’s never been wanted. Desired, taken, used. But wanted? It makes Haru flush, confused and all jumbled because they realize they want this- want to be wanted, want to feel needed. Like they’re worth something, and maybe-

“Makoto.” wants to let them feel that.

“Haru…” They lean in, soft kisses peppering over sun-kissed cheeks, down Makoto’s pink-flushed neck, tickling the soft lobe of his ear.

“Show me what to do. What do you want me to do to you?”

Makoto licks his lips, stares up at them with half-lidded dewey green eyes and Haru’s never been looked at like that before. All needy, begging, it’s so new, so different.

Haru thinks they don’t mind it.

“Fuck me like I fuck you. Show me how it feels.”

And Haru nods, over and over again, because they can’t find the right words to say, find the right words to show how, even though they’re so nervous, they feel so thankful

“Okay.” And Haru hopes Makoto knows that “okay” means everything.

 

“Are you ready?”

“As long as you are.”

“So I just…?”

Makoto pulls his legs up and wraps them around Haru’s waist. It feels weirdly juvenile, the simplicity of missionary, like they’re both kids fumbling in their bedroom under their parent’s roof for the first time.

“Go slow, easy. Don’t worry, okay?” Makoto reaches up, runs a finger down the side of their cheek, and Haru presses a kiss at the tip, because even like this, Makoto is still taking care of them.

“Tell me if it doesn’t feel good, okay? I’ll stop.” Makoto pulls them in closer, until Haru’s rubbing up against his ass, and it makes them shiver in anticipation.

“You’ll always feel good. Please, Haru…” Makoto rocks forward, begging with his hips, and Haru gives in.

They press forward, slow, slow _slow_ , until Haru’s maybe halfway in, and all they want is to get deeper, get closer, feel Makoto from everywhere, inside and out.

“Ah…” Makoto pants, hand pressed over his mouth, eyes crinkled up in the corners. “Are you okay?”

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” Their head is still spinning, sensation of being sucked in still new and different, tight, like they’ve heard over and over again. They know what it means now, know what _so tight_ means, and it has Haru’s eyes rolling in to the back of their head.

“You’re the one who stopped.” Makoto laughs a little and rolls his hips down, burying Haru up to the base. They groan, strangled up in the back of their throat.

“Makoto don’t- don’t do that.”

“Why not?” He asks, pulling his hips back just a little bit only to pull Haru back in.

“Y-you’ll hurt yourself.”

“I’m not breakable, Haru.” He reaches up, arms wrapping around Haru’s neck. “Harder now, let me feel like how I make you feel.”

So Haru gives in. They drive their hips forward, hard, deeper, trying to do that thing Makoto does where-

“Ah! Fuck, yeah. There- oh…!” Makoto’s moans are loud, Makoto’s always been loud, head whipping back and forth on the pillow.

“Like this?” Haru pushes forward again, deliberate, hard, drawn-out. Makoto whines from below, dark green filled black with pupil like a forest in the night.

“Yeah, yeah- more, Haru, please!” Haru reaches forward, hands trailing across Makoto’s chest, pinching at hard, abused nipples that are begging to be touched.

“You’re so good at begging.” Haru mumbles, finding his rhythm as they meet Makoto’s hips, little moans hitching in the back of his throat with every thrust. They watch as that thick, angry red cock bounces up against Makoto’s stomach, slapping against the cum-smeared skin.

“No- ah- I’m not!” Makoto flushes deep pink across his cheeks, accusation making him clench down around Haru’s dick.

“Don’t deny it- you like it.”

“Mmm…!” Makoto squeezes his eyes shut, head rolling back against the pillow.

Haru can feel themselves winding tighter, they’re not going to last- Makoto’s too good, too cute, flushed and embarrassed and ready to beg for them. It’s too much to handle, too new and too perfect.

They wrap a hand around that familiar heavy cock, and this they can do, done it so many times before, Haru’s lost count.

They slide their hand down easy, all slicked and dripping all because of Haru.

“Haru, Haru, Haru, please!” Makoto chants, because Haru knows how much their name means to him. “So close, let me come…”

“Touch yourself.” That makes Makoto lose it, whines all high and wanton because he likes being told what to do, likes being ordered around.

Haru watches as Makoto fucks into his own fist, hard and fast and unrelenting. They match their thrusts to that hand, hips faltering because it’s so good, Makoto begging from beneath him, pre-cum pooling over the edge of his fingers, and asking for more, _make me come, cum in me, please Haru, please._

“Fuck, Makoto-god, I-”

“Ha-Haru!”

It’s a mess, Haru’s never seen Makoto come so much, flowing over the edge of his fist in spurts. Haru pulls out and looks down, sees their own cum coating Makoto’s rim.

They can’t bother to clean the mess, pants heavy and and thick as the smell of sex fills the room.

Haru lays down, tucks their head beneath Makoto’s chin. They press kisses into the hollow of his throat, nose nuzzling the soft, familiar skin.

“Aww, hey there. What’s up?” Makoto coos, fingers stroking through their hair.

“Nothing. Just.” Haru pauses. Just what?

“Just happy. Thank you.” _For letting me. For asking me to. For making me feel like I’m needed here._

“Of course, Haru.” Makoto presses a kiss into their hair, and Haru feels like for the first time, everything is right.

“Hey. Can I ask for something?” Haru leans up until they’re facing each other.

“Anything,” Makoto says, tapping a finger against Haru’s nose.

“Can we take a picture together?” Haru wants to remember. Wants to remember forever what it feels like for things to be right. For things to feel normal.

“Right now? I mean, we’re covered in-”

“Right now.”

And Makoto smiles, wide and bright and Haru wants to save that forever.

He reaches over to the bedside table and grabs the camera. He holds it above their heads, lens facing them.

“Ready? One, two-”

The shutter snaps on three.

* * *

The commune is silent after midnight. Makoto can hear Nagisa snoring, can hear Rin mumbling. But Haru sleeps like the dead, unmoving, silent, breaths barely even raising the sheets pulled up over their shoulders.

It’s the only way he’s able to leave.

Makoto stalls at the doorway, feels himself sinking in again, getting stuck. He wants to get stuck, wants to stay here forever, right in this room, beneath the dim dirty light, look at himself in that old cracked mirror.

He looks down at the bed, moonlight from the window glowing over his Change. He walks back, kneels down next to the mattress. So flawless, so perfect, so beautiful, just like they’ve always been. The skin that glows like they’re radiant, the eyes that weave stories, the smile that rearranges Makoto’s heart until it shakes in the chambers.

From here, it’s east to Tokyo.

If he follows his compass, he’ll end up right back here, some day.

Makoto pulls the camera up to his eye.

The shutter snaps one last time, deafening in the silence of the night. Haru doesn’t even move. Makoto slips a piece of paper beneath Haru’s pillow, lets his fingers trail over that pretty, soft skin one last time.

“Thank you.” he whispers, voice shaking in his throat.

As he walks through the dark alleyways, moonlight reflects off teardrops, collecting up in the viewfinder.

* * *

  
Haru has never been on a train before. Never actually been away from home before. They watch the ocean from the window, head leaned against the glass.

_“Adventure, Haru-chan! Adventure!”_

_“We don’t have the money for adventure.”_

_“Sure we do! And beside, even if we didn’t, I already bought your tickets, and they’re non-refundable, so you might as well go or it would be a waste, wouldn’t it?”_

An art exhibition, Nagisa had said. Be friendly, you’re a guest, people will be there to see you.

Haru cannot believe Nagisa paid to send them to this.

7 hours away by train, all the way into metropolis, where people never look at the sky and only look down.

The only thing Haru knows about Tokyo is you can’t see the stars at night.

Haru inhales. Closes their eyes. Exhales. Breathes.

It seems sad in Tokyo.

 

The exhibition is crowded. Haru wants to go home. The upperclass elite circle the gallery because they have nothing better to do than look at art, but never purchase, because who buys art anymore anyways? Haru takes in the designer clothes that bump up against their skin as they shuffle past, the champagne that keeps being offered to them that Haru couldn’t decline even if they wanted to, the double takes they keep receiving, followed by points and whispers.

This seems like a strange place to have a cult porn-model as a featured guest. Haru keeps quiet.

Haru tries to enjoy the exhibits, but they’re all crowded by men and women all dressed in black. Haru feels severely underdressed, even after Nagisa had said “wear your nicest”. The black lace that hugs their waist and cuts off at mid thigh suddenly makes Haru feel over-exposed. They sip at their champagne. There’s one more section to the gallery. Then, they can go home.

 **GEDAI GRADUATE THESIS PRESENTATION**  

University students filter out of the gallery hall and stop. Haru also stops, blinks back as they stare straight at them, eyes wide like they recognize them.

 _Dear god_ , Haru thinks. _How do you greet fans when you work in this kind of industry? Thanks for your support, I hope you enjoyed your whack?_

Haru’s lips twitch. They want to go home.

The university students shuffle away, whispering to one another.

_“Is that him?”_

_“Or her?”_

_“It has to be…”_

It happens more as Haru walks through the Gedai gallery, nearly every student stopping to look and point, and they’re starting to get unnerved.

_“No, no the photos aren’t for sale…”_

_“But I must have them, she’s beautiful!”_

_“Ah..they’re not-”_

Haru reaches the end of the gallery, a single large white wall dedicated to one student’s project.

 _“Thank You, Doe- Graduate with Honors”_ reads the placard beneath the display.

Haru is staring into an ocean. Blue forever, like the sea lining the horizon. They’re like waves crashing on the beach sand, foam cresting over shore while the night sky overlooks the ocean. Eyes blue as the water, skin pale as the ocean foam, hair dark as a moonlit night.

Haru can hear the laughter, sees the lips parted wide, crinkles in the corner of the eyes, can even see the wetness beading beneath the lash line from laughing so hard, from being so happy, it’s just too hard to contain.

Haru can see the tenderness, soft lashes kissing pale white skin. Everything looks serene, undisturbed, peaceful. Corners of lips tug up just the tiniest bit, like they’re dreaming about something they love.

Haru can feel the affection, two smiles bright enough to glow in the darkness. Earthy green and ocean blue- together, they could make up the entire world.

_Laughter. Happiness. Smiles._

_Home. Friends. Family._

_Beginning. Healing. Ending._

_Love._

Haru sees it all over again, hears it all over again, feels it all over again. Everywhere, from the corner of the wall to the opposite end. It’s all them, eyes bright and facing the world. Smile wide and real, like Haru never thought it could be. Nothing hidden, blotching scars uncovered and visible, but the laughter shows more than anything else.

Thank you, Doe.

_Thank you, Haru._

Haru covers their mouth, not because they want to hide it, not because they don’t want to feel, but because they’re feeling so much, Haru doesn’t know how to contain it. Tears collect in their lashes, drip down their cheeks and down the tip of their chin.

“Makoto!”

A compass that always points west.

“Makoto!”

From here, home is west.

“Makoto!”

Four months, two weeks, three days.

“Makoto!”

That’s how long it takes for Haru to find love.

“Haru?”

It takes four months, two weeks, and three days, for love to find them again.

And Haru’s in the air, swept up in arms that could hold up the world.

“Haruka.”

Haru loves their name. Loves the way it sounds, loves the way it feels on Makoto’s tongue as he hums it into their mouth.

“Are you ready?”

“As long as you are.”

* * *

They can hear it, like it has its own heartbeat. Heavy and loud with time spent and stories told, Haru is sure it can talk to them from beneath their pillow.

Torn in the corners, folded over crease lines over and over again until they’re afraid it’ll crumble into nothing, the photo is the only thing that lets Haru remember.

 

_Dear Haruka,_

_I’ll be ready to come home to you soon, as long as you still are._

_I love you._

_Makoto_

The Haru from then smiles back at them. They press at their cheeks, and they can remember exactly how it felt.

They take out a pen, ink pressing into the worn, tired paper, Haru writes.

 

_Makoto,_

_When you come home, I’ll try to smile more._

_Haruka_

It’s a promise, permanent and there forever.

It speaks to them from underneath the softness of their pillow.

Maybe, from wherever he is, however far away he’s gone, Makoto can hear it too.

 

 


End file.
